Oh no, He Din't.

This may or may not be an actual photo. Of me.

Disclaimer: If you are my sister, do not read this post.

Additional Disclaimer: If you are a daughter of one of my sisters, do not tattle on me.

So, an older brother came to visit me in my new/old, awesome/dilapidated house to hopefully appreciate the alleged before/after of the dwelling, which we are hoping actually happens. In this lifetime, yes.

Big Brother is standing at the street, viewing the view, of course. I throw open the front door, in an act of welcoming delight and head up the sidewalk to greet him. With delight, of course.

So, he gives me a bear hug and zealous vocal greeting and takes a good look at me.

You are looking more like a <insert maiden name here> everyday, he is saying.

Note: I do not know what that means. So I make the mistake. Of asking Big Brother what that means.

He is explaining about how he never thought I looked much like my three (older) sisters, who obviously, share my maiden name.

Note: Yes, older.

But now, he is saying exuberantly, that your face is starting to sag, I see the resemblance!

Oh, no he din't ...

Sweet Holy Moly.

It's My Party. And I'll Cry if I Want To.

Disclaimer: I do not usually favor political rants. But sometimes I have to. Rant. Please proceed with a sense of humor.


So, I am definitely not in the mood for a party. At least, not a party of a political nature, no. I have kinda had it up to here with all the noise ... noise ... noise.

Note: Is it possible to Bah! Humbug the whole political season? 

And I do not understand why it's called a party in the first place. Oh, sure there are plenty of games being played by the party, but they are not any fun, although occasionally the "Party Games" remind me vaguely of a creepy version of Pin the Tail on the Ass Donkey, in my opinion, I'm just saying.

So, I am thinking about which potential Republican Nominee's party that I might prefer to attend. Yes, I am speaking of an actual party, where I wear my favorite White House/Black Market skirt, hilarious   political pun intended, and shave my legs, even. Mitt cuts a dashing figure with his chiseled features and perfect hair and he's got the cash for a really nice shindig, unless you're into boozing or extra-martial relations. But I imagine the red punch would be delicious.

Newt, on the other hand, is not without his own charm.

Note: Wait a minute. Yes, he is. Without charm.

Additional Note: Is it just me, or does he resemble a garden gnome in an expensive suit?

Oh, come on. I know you can see the resemblance.

You cannot make me attend that Party.

Hey! I have an idea. Let's throw the politicos in a swimming pool and let them hash it out in a good, old-fashioned chicken fight. Now, that's a party game! Mitt can sit on the shoulders of his five, strapping boys and Newt can sit on the shoulders of his three, feuding sort-of-wives, but with Mitt's approval, maybe Newt can have an open-chicken-fight partnership. With other ladies.

Note: Oh, that isn't very nice of me. Whatever.

Additional Note: Oh, there's another rule about the Republican pool party. Newt may not, under any circumstance, remove his shirt in the pool.  And the 'No Speedo' rule goes without saying.

Sweet Holy Moses.

The 49ers' Final Rose. Sigh.

Gentlemen, this is your Final Rose
of the Season.

It is a sad day. Our 49er flag is flying at half-mast, yes.

Note: Actually, that is afigure of speech. Sadly, I do not own a 49er flag.

I am lamenting the painful loss to the New York Giants and one-of-the-Manning-brothers -but-who-really-cares-which-one in the NFC Championship game. I am lamenting the injustice of it all. I am lamenting the injustice and inhumanity of the loss.

I am exaggerating, but not much.

But I am lamenting the end of the season, the end of being a fan for the year.  I will miss football. I have never cared much for professional basketball, a game in my opinion, combining freaks of nature and outrageous egos. College sports are a little dull this year and baseball season is far off.

Note: And, sadly, if you are an Oakland Athletics fan, it's farther off than that.

So I am lamenting my deep feelings of loss and grief about the situation to The Hub. He understands my pain. He is my soulmate, yes.

But Honey, he is saying in earnest heartfelt fashion, we'll be okay. He takes me in his arms. At least we still have The Bachelor.

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

The 49ers' Last Rose. Sigh.

Not By the Hair of My Chinny Chin Chin. Please.

So, let's play a game. 


Let's say that I am lost. Or you are lost. Or your Dear Husband slash Significant Other slash Grandmother is lost. 


Note: Okay, let's eliminate the possibility of losing Grandma. Not cool. 
Let's just say that I am lost.

The other day I am walking The Dog and she is stopping to pee at a telephone poll, because every other dog in the neighborhood has done so, apparently. She's sniffing and peeing and I see that someone has posted a Lost Pet sign. On the telephone pole, yes.


Oh dear! A lost pet! 


The sign has a big photo of a missing cat with a short description of the animal. 

A Big, Swinging Belly? Really?

Note: Do her boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro? 


A Big, Swinging Belly? Really? This creature's defining characteristic is her Big, Swinging Belly? 


So, it got me to thinking, which is always a little dangerous. Hence, the game. 


Let's say that you are out walking your dog and on the telephone pole is a picture of me. Because I am lost, apparently. How does the sign describe me? What is my defining trait to the eye of a Local Search and Rescue Team. 


Lost! The sign may read, Friendly, with Slightly Saggy Jowls. 


Or Lost! The sign may read, Pleasant, with Unfortunate Chin Hair.


Or Lost! The sign may read, Outgoing, but Needs a Boob Job. 


Sweet Holy Moses. 


This is a dumb game.

I Am Not in My Right Mind. Or My Left, Sadly.

I am tooling around Target with The Hub and The (Big) GrandBoy. Big Grand is sitting in the cart, sort of, because he's going through this  difficult endearing phase where sitting in the appointed seat is so last month. It takes a great deal of energy/bribery to keep Big Grand safely seated and appropriately entertained.

So, The Hub is driving the cart like a Drunk Race Car Driver and he is saying, vroom vroom and Big Grand is sipping a red icee through a straw and is dribbling red stuff on his shirt in vroom vroom delight while eating multi-colored goldfish crackers because these grandparents do not care about food colorings and additives in the diets of the Grands as long as the child is happy and thinks we are freaking awesome.

We are on an aisle with lots of balls because GrandPop and Big Grand are now playing catch, except not really, because BG is sipping a red icee and munching on multi-colored goldfish. So, GrandPop is playing catch, yes.

A Fellow Shopper, late twenties maybe, says May I ask you a personal question?

Note: The question itself makes me giddy. I love personal questions.

He picks up a stability exercise ball, one of the giant ones. I see his receding hairline over the ball. He is squeezing the ball a little because he seems a little nervous and says Did you use a birthing ball when you had your baby? and he is gesturing over the ball with his head toward Big Grand.

I feel a little smug smile creeping across my lips, like the Grinch. First of all, The Hub and I cannot possibly be this child's parents. Aside from the obvious age issues, we are cruising around Target like crazy fools with a shopping cart while feeding the child red icees and multi-colored goldfish! No parent in his right mind would behave so recklessly.

Note: Clearly we are Grandparents. We have no right mind.

For some reason, I am frozen, in my amusement.

The Hub rescues me in my unusual silence and pipes up to Fellow Shopper, Actually, he is our Grandson.

I am thinking, Does this mean he doesn't want to hear my birthing experiences? but I find myself saying unnecessary things like, People make that mistake all then time, which is not true, and things like, I hear that lots of women like a birthing ball, which may be true but I do not know this for a fact and even things like, If I were having a baby today, I might try one, which is definitely not true because if I were having a baby today I would be too drugged up to even know my own name.

Note: I may be exaggerating, slightly.

Fellow Shopper slinks away. Without the ball, sadly.

The Hub is grinning and eating multi-colored Goldfish crackers.

Big Grand offers me a sip of his red icee. I oblige, dribbling red stuff down my shirt.

Heck, yes!

Beware. Granny on a Broom.

You have been warned!

The witching hour is approaching quickly, yes.

Note: The witching hour is the time of night when witches and demons appear. It is usually associated with the darkest hours past midnight, or when a Cub Scout Planning Meeting has gone longer than 2-1/2 hours.

Sadly, I am discussing the latter scenario. And if my current state of mind is any indication, a witch of some sort may appear quite shortly indeed.

Note: I warned you ...

I am getting the jitters.

I am sitting at a kitchen table. My eyes are blurring and I am stifling a yawn. Hoping for distraction, I reach for a drink of water and whack the cup, spilling it on the milk chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts  that has been provided for the enjoyment of the cub scout leaders.

I am sorry, I am saying, dabbing with napkins and kleenex from my purse and I really am sorry because now I'll have to eat the wet, gross chocolate because I'm responsible for the carnage.

I am so tired. Why are the other leaders not sleepy? I am wondering. Are they buzzed on caffeine? Are they on a sugar-high from the wet chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts? Are they decades younger than me?

Note: Oh, that.

We are discussing scout activities and swim teams and mascara. We are discussing Wolf achievements and Wolf electives and wet chocolate.

Note: My bad.

One of the other leaders who is pushing thirty, probably, is discussing the other women in her church congregation. The other women are very young. Newly married, blushing brides, she is saying and adds, it makes me feel like a freaking granny!

Excuse me, Pal I am saying. I am the freaking granny.

Note: Okay, fine. I did not say that. Not exactly. I stuffed a piece of wet chocolate in my mouth. To gain a little time.

But I definitely feel that witch wriggling just a little bit inside of my head, yearning to be free!

Ah, yes. The Witching Hour Indeed.

Heck, yes!